


Bound

by Beguile



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Blow Jobs, Claiming, Collar, Kneeling, M/M, Matt is a Bratty Sub, Ownership, Power Dynamics, Swallowing, Territorial Behaviours
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 02:52:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17675048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beguile/pseuds/Beguile
Summary: Frank puts a collar on Matt.He may as well have put it on himself.PWP. One-shot.





	Bound

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a Tumblr prompt: "Frank/Matt. Frank buys a new dog collar. It's not for Max." Due to the explicit content of this story, I only posted the non-smut parts on my blog. I saved the rest for here. Enjoy!

* * *

 

              Matt doesn’t notice till he’s back at his apartment. He whips off the mask, tears off his gloves, and reaches for the zipper on the back of the suit, but he can’t find it. There’s something in the way. A band, about two inches wide, made from a similar material as the suit. Matt searches for a clasp or a latch: he finds a buckle fitted with a small padlock.

               He fumes, tearing at it, not caring that he chokes himself in the attempt to get it off. Not caring that he isn’t getting anywhere. He needs to try to rip it off with his hands first, and then, when that fails, he needs to go digging through his toolkit for the bolt cutters that – surprise, surprise – aren’t there anymore.

               His burner starts going off. Matt rips it from his holster, flips it open, and then breathes into it angrily by way of greeting.

               Frank sounds downright chipper. “Told you I had a present for you.”

               “Yeah,” Matt says, “I’ve got one for you too. Come over and I’ll give it to you.”   
  
               “You don’t like it?”

               Matt could punch a hole in the wall. “You’ve been in my apartment, Frank!”

               “That what you’re so pissed about, Red? That I went into your apartment?” Frank gives a small scoff, something akin to a laugh.

               Matt deserves it, has earned it even. He let himself get tagged in a fight by Frank, and now he can’t bring himself to talk about the thing around his neck out loud, in words. The weight of it has started to register through the suit. It itches along the back of his neck. It hugs against his Adam’s apple, tightening its grip. “What the hell is this?”

               “A reminder.”

               “A reminder of what?”

               “The hell do you think?” Frank clearly doesn’t want to talk about it either. “You got my number: you call me when you figure it out. Or when you want it off.”   
  
               “I’m getting it off.”   
  
               “You get it off yourself, you’ll have bigger problems.”

               “Oh, like what? What will you do, Frank?”   
  
               But Frank’s already hung up.

               Matt claps the cell phone shut and throws it. He tears at the collar one more time before searching for something sharp. He owns things to use in emergencies; the suit demands them. But Frank’s cleared everything out.

               Angrily, Matt re-dons his mask. There are bolt cutters at Clinton Church. He storms up the stairs only to halt at the door, realizing that he has no idea what colour this damn thing is. Knowing Frank, it’s something obnoxious and bright, emblazoned with a few choice words. Something that lights up to let everyone know the Devil’s around.

               Worse than that is the sound of his alarm going off in the bedroom. A signal that the day is starting. He doesn’t have time to go to the church; he doesn’t have time to do anything but get ready for court. 

               Matt thunders back down the steps. He tears off his mask, manages to get the zipper on his back undone, and hops into the shower. The water helps distract him from the weight on his throat, but the second he’s out, his body is crawling with sensation. Ants rove under his skin. Matt scrubs himself with the towel as hard as possible, wincing every time the lock jangles on his neck.

               He gets dressed. It’s impossible to get the collar of his shirt to lay over the collar on his neck, not to mention damn irritating. Matt slips his shirt under, then, and wraps a tie overtop, praying the edges hide whatever Frank’s put on him. He folds his shirt collar down. Aside for the tightness on his neck, he can almost forget about the damn thing.

               Karen and Foggy don’t seem to notice anything amiss. The heartbeats that flare around him come from a discomfort with attorneys, not from the sight of a locked collar on his neck. Hiding in plain sight gives him a whole new kind of anger. Matt starts the trial off with the Devil on a thin leash. By the time they break for lunch, he’s got the prosecution on the ropes.

               “You are on fire today!” Foggy says.

               “Thanks,” Matt says. He feels on fire. He tugs at his collar, and a rush of panic runs through him when he realizes why it won’t budge.

               Foggy and Karen don’t seem to notice, thank God, but Matt still excuses himself and ducks into the men’s room. He hides in a stall and plays around with his tie. His fingers play against the fabric of what feels like his suit, what feels like the Devil.

               His heartbeat slows; his breathing evens out.

               Matt tears his hands away from his neck.  

               He makes sure that his tie covers him. He heads back into the courtroom. At first, he’s surprisingly reserved, but the band tightens on his neck. His breath hitches. The Devil comes out, infuriated, and the prosecution doesn’t stand a damn chance. Jury comes back unanimously in favour of their client. Matt gets caught up in the energy. His anger simmers into warmth. The Devil needs a drink. They go to Josie’s, and he starts to loosen up. He feels himself uncoil from under the weight of the collar. He spills over it, around it, till it’s not wearing him, he’s wearing it.

               He goes home and changes into the suit, barely noticing, now, how he has to move around the collar on his neck. The pressure under his Adam’s apple is exactly the right weight. Matt heads out and unleashes a different kind of hell than what he did in the courtroom.

               Frank’s a ghost; of course, he is. He isn’t looking to be found, and Matt doesn’t go looking for him. Instead, Matt goes home. He lets himself celebrate the day: winning the case, cleaning up the streets. And the collar barely hurts anymore. He keeps his burner within reach not so he can call, but because he knows Frank is going to call him. It’s only a matter of time.

               Sure enough, two days later, Matt comes home from drinks with Foggy and Karen to Frank in his living room. They fight, only stopping when Frank gets two of his fingers under the collar and twists. Matt chokes on his next breath, wincing from the sting of his pinched skin.

               “You know what this means, Red? You figure it out yet?” Frank demands.

               “Yeah,” Matt wheezes. He leans his head forward, straight into the taut strap of the collar. “Have you?”

               “I’m the one who put it on you!” Frank tugs at his neck a little harder. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

               Matt lets out a choked laugh. “Sure, you do, Frank.”

               He’s released then, his head knocking onto the floor. Frank fumbles at his own neck. A key jangles on a chain. Matt’s hands spring from punching at Frank’s abdomen to cover the lock on his neck. “No.”   
  
               “No, what?” Frank demands.

               “No.”

               Frank reaches; Matt scrambles out of the way. He sets his mouth into a hard line. “No. You don’t get to take it back.”   
  
               “It’s a God damn collar, Red!”

               “Yeah, and it’s mine!”

               “It’s mine! I made it! I put it on you!”   
  
               “I’m wearing it!”

               The key continues jangling between them. Frank gets off his knees, onto his feet, his boots scraping the floor like a bull about to charge. “I’m taking it back.”   
  
               “You can try,” Matt says. He hops onto his feet too.

               They charge each other. Frank nabs him by the collar again, twisting, but Matt has already adapted. He lets himself be choked in order to get his hands on the chain with the key. Once he has that, he wraps it around Frank’s wrist, then he tugs it up to loop it around Frank’s neck.

               He pulls, Frank pulls. He chokes, Frank chokes. And they stand there, wrapped up in themselves, holding fast to the other’s neck, their staggered breaths intermingling in the narrow space between their mouths.

               “Let go,” Frank says.

               “You let go,” Matt counters.

               “I got you!”

               Matt shakes his head. “I got you.”

               Neither of them say the obvious – that they got each other – but they both know the other is thinking it, because a second later, Frank is charging Matt into the wall, and Matt twists them onto the floor. And they tear at each other till their faces are red, till their collars have cut lines into their necks.

               The chain snaps. Matt flings it, sending the key flying into the corners of his apartment. Frank’s grip loosens momentarily as he considers going after it, but then he goes back to twisting the collar, crushing Matt’s trachea into his spinal cord. He doesn’t hold on for very long. “God damn it!” He slams Matt’s head into the floor when he lets go. “What the fuck is your problem? Why the hell would you want this?”

               Matt coughs, rolling onto his side. His body’s stiff, the blood shooting out of his skull towards his waist, towards his thighs. “Because it’s mine, Frank,” he says raggedly. “The only way you get it back is if I give it to you.”

               Frank is shaking his head. His heart stampedes inside his chest. “No way. No fucking way, Red!”

               Matt lifts himself from the floor, but he stays on his knees. His perception spins – from the choking and the fighting and the blood rushing out of his skull. He centres the lock on the front of his neck, letting Frank catch a glimpse of it before he bows his head.

               “No,” Frank says, less for Matt than for himself. He shifts his weight from foot to foot. “No, that isn’t how it works. I locked you up.”

               “Yeah,” Matt replies, lifting his head slightly from the floor. Just enough that Frank’s heart staggers and skips a beat in its angry charge. “Yeah, you did.”   
  
               “ _I own you_.” Again, more for himself.

               “Sure, you do.” And Matt lets his smirk catch Frank’s eye, sending that heartbeat running at a whole new pace.

               Frank storms over to him, his hands at his belt, tearing it open. He unbuttons his pants, drops his drawers, and then his fingers dig under the collar, right where the lock is. He twists, using his wrist to lift Matt’s face. Matt refuses to move his gaze. Refuses to react in any way. He keeps his breathing slow and even, his arms dangling at his sides, his head tilted away from Frank. But inside, his senses are scrambling, collecting: the smell, the heat. His mouth hangs slightly open; the hair on the back of his neck stands on end. He’s aching and straining on the inside, but he must be doing a good job of playing nonchalant because Frank’s heart is thundering. His dick looms, hot and hard and heavy between them. The last threshold in an endless parade of last thresholds between them.

               Matt opens his mouth and goes to take it, but he’s held back by Frank: Frank, who still has two fingers latched under the collar. Frank, who might be even more desperate than he is to get off. For a moment, anyways. Having the Punisher’s knuckles in his neck, his head spinning from suffocation, his throat dry and his blood so hot and his body so still: Matt lets out a moan, buckling a little under the pressure. One of his hands jerks towards his own dick looking for some kind of relief.

               “No.” Frank tugs at the collar, snapping Matt back to attention and earning another moan in the process. He shifts his hand around, tugging against a nerve cluster in the back of Matt’s neck, one that strokes across his scalp. He shakes his arms at his sides to loosen them, shifts his legs to ease the pressure in his groin.

               “Ask me,” Frank says.

               Matt swallows back a smirk. He keeps his head down, and whatever Frank sees sends a rush of blood to his dick so intensely that Matt can feel it thrum against his skin. “Please,” Matt says.

               “God damn,” Frank grumbles. “ _Ask_.”   
  
               Matt ignores him and makes his voice sound even more desperate: “Please, Frank.”   
  
               “Fuck you, Red.” Frank takes him back a little, then shoves him forward. He thrusts inside Matt’s open mouth so hard that Matt feels the corners of his lips split from the force. Matt chokes and sputters and tries to adjust to the size, the stretch. To the bulb of Frank’s cock at the back of his throat, riding his tonsils and his gag reflex. But then Frank’s pulled him back till only the tip is resting on his tongue.

               “You think you’re the one who calls the shots tonight? Huh?” Frank bucks forward, his dick slamming into Matt’s throat again. He adjusts his grip on the collar and takes to thrusting, matching his movements to every flex of Matt’s muscles, every defiant moan, every hot rush of blood. “Think you’re in control?”

               Matt can’t adjust. He can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t focus. He’s the rough tug of cock across his tongue, under his teeth, through his lips; he’s the taste of salt and sweat and precum in the back of his throat; the slap of Frank’s balls under his chin; the prickle of Frank’s pubes on his nose. And those knuckles, those knuckles twisted under that padlocked collar that traces his neck like the suit, confusing his already confused senses into thinking he’s in the mask, that he’s letting the Devil out as Frank face-fucks a different kind of Devil into him.

               He raises his hands to Frank’s hips for balance. He feels Frank’s voice raining down over him, rumbling through him, as he rides through another thrust. His thighs are taut on the floor, ass clenched, dick straining against his slacks; another whine looses itself from his throat. Matt yanks against Frank, pushing himself all the way onto Frank’s dick and holding himself there, eyes closed lungs straining blood pounding body shaking…

               His turn to not give Frank a time to adjust. He puts his tongue to work, sending shockwaves through Frank. He starts a whole new rhythm – slow and patient, rolling his tongue forward and back, gathering force through the pressure in his mouth rather than the thrust of his lips. Frank groans, his back arching, and it’s…God, it’s good. It’s better than good, better than Matt deserves: his eyelids flutter; he loses focus, especially when Frank’s voice goes soft. “Oh, shit, Red.” Frank’s knees shake. He straightens, that old training coming back to save him from crashing to the floor. He puts a hand on Matt’s scalp and strokes back his hand in approval.   
  
               Matt chokes on more than dick. He can’t help himself. He moves a little faster to cover, but Frank’s hands stroke his head and he realizes he’s given himself away. There’s the sound of a laugh, a dull, throaty rumble from above, words that cause Matt to buck forward, split his mouth open and wrap his throat around Frank’s dick. The choking works. The words work. Frank’s hands work. It all fucking works. Matt’s about ready to finish there. He starts pumping. He grips Frank’s hips and heaves Frank into him harder and faster, and Frank goes with it, his hands clutching Matt’s scalp, fingers splayed and palms hot, and the grunts pour down on Matt, getting louder and louder, until Frank is roaring, his whole body is shaking, and cum fills Matt’s mouth.

               He’s too in the moment to be overwhelmed. The heat of it, the taste, the texture – Matt doubles down. He puts himself back where he belongs, mouth full of Frank, _swallowing swallowing swallowing_ , but Frank steps back from him suddenly, straight out of his hands. Cum drains out of his mouth, down his chin, spattering onto his shirt. The apartment feels so cold around him. His body feels so tense. His head spins, that guiding hand on the collar painfully absent. The only heat he has left is what Frank leaves on him, and the only stability he has is waning. His abdominals and thighs ache; his dick throbs.

               Matt swallows again. He raises a hand and wipes off his chin on his sleeve, then he untucks his shirt and starts unbuttoning. Frank is hovering by the wall, pants still jangling around his knees, breath coming in short bursts. He’ll be gone shortly.

               “Leave the key when you go,” Matt says, rising shakily to his feet. He tears off his shirt and jacket, ditching them on the floor.

               Frank scoffs, indignant. He yanks up his pants and doesn’t bother to buckle them by the sounds of things, just tromps over to Matt and catches the collar. He yanks Matt back, putting their faces together. “You still don’t get it,” he says, “What this means.”

               “What does it mean?” Matt asks. He gets it now less than he did when Frank put it on him. Less than he did when he thought Frank was leaving.

               “Means I ain’t done with you,” Frank says. He nips at Matt’s cheek. “Means I ain’t never done with you.”

               He shoves Matt in the direction of the bathroom. He unzips his boots, kicks them off, and loses the rest of his pants. “Get the shower running.”   
  
               The sour-sweet taste of Frank is alive and fresh in Matt’s mouth, on his chest. He lowers his head, waiting for that tell-tale spike in Frank’s respiration from the sight of him submitting.

               Then he smirks. “Yes, Frank.”   
  
               Frank bundles up his belt in his hands, snapping the leather. Matt’s smirk broadens into a grin, and he heads for the bathroom with Frank following close behind. 

* * *

 

Happy reading!


End file.
